Poor Older Lady Didn’t Let Anyone Into Her Home for 26 Years Until I Set Foot Inside

One rainy Thursday afternoon, Mrs. Halloway beckoned me close to her hospital bed. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Dori, I lied to you about something important.”

My stomach dropped like a stone.

“About what?”

Tears started spilling down her cheeks. “My daughter didn’t die in a car crash. She left me.

She blamed me for staying silent… for letting her father control us both. She said I was weak and pathetic. She changed her name and started a completely new life.

I never saw her again.”

I felt like I couldn’t breathe. “Do you know where she is now?”

Mrs. Halloway’s wrinkled hand trembled as she reached into her bedside drawer and pressed a folded piece of paper into my palm.

“Last address I could find. From about five years ago. I was too much of a coward to ever go there.”

I unfolded the paper with shaking fingers.

It was an address in my own city, about 20 minutes from my house.

I debated with myself for three solid weeks.

Was this really my place? Did Mrs. Halloway’s daughter even want to be found after all these years?

What if I was opening old wounds that should stay closed?

But something about the frail woman in that hospital bed and the deep sadness in her eyes when she talked about her lost daughter kept pushing me forward.

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